Wednesday, August 27, 2008
Final Thoughts
The road from Kakamega to Nairobi is long and dusty, a pounding, ragged journey that savages the spine. The first half is a shambling ditch with an archipelago of tarmac mounds that makes speed impossible and slow progress unbearable. This is not surprising. The first half of the road from Kakamega to Nairobi lies outside of Central Province. Central Province, if you were wondering, is the land of the Kikuyu, the tribe of Kenya’s chosen ones. The abused house servants of the colonial British, the Kikuyu managed to proffer their subservience into a primary role in independence and have been the tribe of the ruling party over the entirety of the past 45 years since Uhuru (independence). As you might imagine, the roads in Central Province are considerably better.
The man next to me on the bus from Kakamega to Nairobi is Luya by tribe. He works for a bank in Nairobi but still returns monthly to see his family in Kisumu (near Kakamega). He asks me the obligatory questions posed to whitey: Where are you from? How long have you been in Kenya? What do you do here? Why monkeys? And someone pays you for this?
I have grown accustomed to these questions, and the peculiar reactions to my answers. I assume that my responses baffle most Kenyans and make them ponder how the US maintains its super-power status when they continue paying people to follow monkeys around. Then my companion asks a new question: What do Americans think of Africa?
I have no quick, practiced response to this one. I am an American, but I feel utterly unqualified to speak for my countrymen in this regard. Our impressions are predominantly shaped by media. The Africa of my youth was narrated by Marlin Perkins and David Attenborough, and was a Technicolor safari across wild savannahs, punctuated by violent wildebeest migrations across the Mara River. National Geographic showed us the ochre-painted Maasai warriors dancing and the rainbow-colored Samburu women. Joy Adams got “Born Free” stuck in all of our heads and Sigourney Weaver made Dian Fossey much prettier and less insane than she really was. And we’ll not even discuss Tarzan.
So, what do Americans think of Africa? I think of forests where shrieking animals still disturb an interlocking canopy. Savannahs where elephants born in my father’s youth amble in the shadow of Kilimanjaro. I think of people with absolutely nothing happily offering me, a stranger, food and water when I arrive already full and quenched. I think of modern cities with suited businessmen and western fashion. I think of mud huts and grass roofs. I think of hope and development. I think of overwhelming poverty, disease, and despair.
But I am not the one to represent my countrymen’s thoughts of Kenya to my bus companion; I am not representative so I do not respond. I look out the window as we pass out of Kisumu; I see the burned houses, homes destroyed in the election violence earlier this year, homes of Kikuyu burned by Luya angry at the election stolen by Kibaki and homes of Luya destroyed by retaliating Kikuyu. Burned out houses, left unrepaired and undemolished, stark reminders of the anger and frustration at a government entrenched and a country held back by years of orchestrated chaos.
I look out the window at tent cities set up for the displaced and wonder when they will go home. I think of Rwanda, 1994. I think of Darfur today. Zimbabwe. Congo. And now I can answer my new friend: What do they think of Africa in my country? They don’t.
The man next to me on the bus from Kakamega to Nairobi is Luya by tribe. He works for a bank in Nairobi but still returns monthly to see his family in Kisumu (near Kakamega). He asks me the obligatory questions posed to whitey: Where are you from? How long have you been in Kenya? What do you do here? Why monkeys? And someone pays you for this?
I have grown accustomed to these questions, and the peculiar reactions to my answers. I assume that my responses baffle most Kenyans and make them ponder how the US maintains its super-power status when they continue paying people to follow monkeys around. Then my companion asks a new question: What do Americans think of Africa?
I have no quick, practiced response to this one. I am an American, but I feel utterly unqualified to speak for my countrymen in this regard. Our impressions are predominantly shaped by media. The Africa of my youth was narrated by Marlin Perkins and David Attenborough, and was a Technicolor safari across wild savannahs, punctuated by violent wildebeest migrations across the Mara River. National Geographic showed us the ochre-painted Maasai warriors dancing and the rainbow-colored Samburu women. Joy Adams got “Born Free” stuck in all of our heads and Sigourney Weaver made Dian Fossey much prettier and less insane than she really was. And we’ll not even discuss Tarzan.
So, what do Americans think of Africa? I think of forests where shrieking animals still disturb an interlocking canopy. Savannahs where elephants born in my father’s youth amble in the shadow of Kilimanjaro. I think of people with absolutely nothing happily offering me, a stranger, food and water when I arrive already full and quenched. I think of modern cities with suited businessmen and western fashion. I think of mud huts and grass roofs. I think of hope and development. I think of overwhelming poverty, disease, and despair.
But I am not the one to represent my countrymen’s thoughts of Kenya to my bus companion; I am not representative so I do not respond. I look out the window as we pass out of Kisumu; I see the burned houses, homes destroyed in the election violence earlier this year, homes of Kikuyu burned by Luya angry at the election stolen by Kibaki and homes of Luya destroyed by retaliating Kikuyu. Burned out houses, left unrepaired and undemolished, stark reminders of the anger and frustration at a government entrenched and a country held back by years of orchestrated chaos.
I look out the window at tent cities set up for the displaced and wonder when they will go home. I think of Rwanda, 1994. I think of Darfur today. Zimbabwe. Congo. And now I can answer my new friend: What do they think of Africa in my country? They don’t.
Monday, July 21, 2008
Random stuff
OK, so there isn't much to say. I follow monkeys, I record monkeys, I look at data. But I do have a USB port today (the internet shop 'found' them), so I'll just stick up some photos. It'll be like you're right here with me.
My home:
While simple, it is very nice and we have rain tanks and a solar panel which gives enough power each day to enter data and run one light bulb for a few hours at night. Perfect.
My neighbor:
I think one of the forest rangers lives here, but all I ever see is his rather ill-tempered cow. We have agreed to ignore one another.
A baby blue monkey:
Mostly because, seriously, that's some cute business.
Some odd cricket-like critters:
Mostly just because, well, it's not a monkey.
Dangers of field work:
This is certainly the first (and most likely the last) any of you will see of me with facial hair. It is not a gift I have, and I do not pretend that it is anything less than disturbing. However, in the interest of full disclosure I felt compelled to include it here.
My home:
While simple, it is very nice and we have rain tanks and a solar panel which gives enough power each day to enter data and run one light bulb for a few hours at night. Perfect.
My neighbor:
I think one of the forest rangers lives here, but all I ever see is his rather ill-tempered cow. We have agreed to ignore one another.A baby blue monkey:
Mostly because, seriously, that's some cute business.Some odd cricket-like critters:
Mostly just because, well, it's not a monkey.Dangers of field work:
This is certainly the first (and most likely the last) any of you will see of me with facial hair. It is not a gift I have, and I do not pretend that it is anything less than disturbing. However, in the interest of full disclosure I felt compelled to include it here.
Sunday, July 20, 2008
No Right Answer
Warning: this post will not be light, full of self-deprecating anecdotes or witty commentary on all things monkey. Mea culpa.
Where to begin ...
I think it begins with colonialism - a few hundred years of British rule in Kenya followed by a botched withdrawal and a subsequent 40 years of mismanagement. But that is too far back to go. Perhaps it is at the crossroads between foreign aid and entrenched government corruption. Maybe it is Bono's fault. I'm not sure, and I doubt even the political scientists or cultural anthropologists could make sense of it. But, here's the story and why it has put me in a mood (I'll try to be brief).
1. Someone came up with a foreign aid plan. Someone else agreed that this was a good plan and some money began trickling into Kenya (some say not enough, some say too much without enough oversight).
2. Someone else came up with the Kenyan Development Plan. This plan outlines the goals for bringing Kenya, still primarily rural and agricultural despite considerable cities, technology, and infrastructure, into the 21st century (or at least the latter half of the 20th).
3. ONE of these goals is power (electricity) to every home in Kenya. Now, as someone who certainly enjoys, nay, depends upon electricity back home, I can hardly fault this as a goal. However, I think some things like clean water and dependable roads are a much higher priority. But no one has consulted me.
4. Because the government here is subject to certain quirks, and agencies rarely suffer under the same degree of oversight we have grown to depend on back home, this goal has had some peculiar manifestations. Rather than push first for specific townships to be electrified in a logical order, each government agency (and there are zillions) has scrambled to demand that their obscure and remote outposts get powered. This goes nicely with the government's ownership of Kenya Power and Light, who gets all the contracts.
5. So, why do I care about all this? Well, the Kenya Forest Department is one such government agency and Kakamega Forest is one such obscure and remote outpost. The forester here was gleeful at the prospect of getting power to his office, his house, and one other building here at the forest station. He was also gleeful at the prospect of selling the cleared timber to a salivating timber company that is not allowed to get into some areas of national forest. However, he kept plans to himself and the last 10 days has been a savage horror of chainsaws. I hear pictures are worth a thousand words, and I certainly haven't the words for it so...
Before:
After:
This was "necessary" to bring power lines in from the main road, several kilometers out. Some of us read a lot about deforestation. We know it happens and that it is happening at an alarming rate. Some of us understand habitat fragmentation, such that even with a small habitat lost, if it bisects a system that system can be irrevocably altered (i.e. connectivity is lost, species cannot migrate, edge effects cause the forest to dwindle, etc.).
How different it is, however, when we watch it happen to something we have grown to know and care about. It occurs to me how little we notice things like this in the west. The houses we live in, the roads we drive on, the power line charging the computers you are currently sitting in front of, were all once some pristine piece of natural ecosystem. I doubt many of us would want to give up these things that have allowed us to have such advanced, safe, and productive lives. And I should not fault others for wanting a taste of it for themselves.
But when you watch 100 year old trees fall, when you hear the alarm calls of monkeys and birds who find their territories suddenly halved, it makes you think. I am thinking. I have no right answer.
Where to begin ...
I think it begins with colonialism - a few hundred years of British rule in Kenya followed by a botched withdrawal and a subsequent 40 years of mismanagement. But that is too far back to go. Perhaps it is at the crossroads between foreign aid and entrenched government corruption. Maybe it is Bono's fault. I'm not sure, and I doubt even the political scientists or cultural anthropologists could make sense of it. But, here's the story and why it has put me in a mood (I'll try to be brief).
1. Someone came up with a foreign aid plan. Someone else agreed that this was a good plan and some money began trickling into Kenya (some say not enough, some say too much without enough oversight).
2. Someone else came up with the Kenyan Development Plan. This plan outlines the goals for bringing Kenya, still primarily rural and agricultural despite considerable cities, technology, and infrastructure, into the 21st century (or at least the latter half of the 20th).
3. ONE of these goals is power (electricity) to every home in Kenya. Now, as someone who certainly enjoys, nay, depends upon electricity back home, I can hardly fault this as a goal. However, I think some things like clean water and dependable roads are a much higher priority. But no one has consulted me.
4. Because the government here is subject to certain quirks, and agencies rarely suffer under the same degree of oversight we have grown to depend on back home, this goal has had some peculiar manifestations. Rather than push first for specific townships to be electrified in a logical order, each government agency (and there are zillions) has scrambled to demand that their obscure and remote outposts get powered. This goes nicely with the government's ownership of Kenya Power and Light, who gets all the contracts.
5. So, why do I care about all this? Well, the Kenya Forest Department is one such government agency and Kakamega Forest is one such obscure and remote outpost. The forester here was gleeful at the prospect of getting power to his office, his house, and one other building here at the forest station. He was also gleeful at the prospect of selling the cleared timber to a salivating timber company that is not allowed to get into some areas of national forest. However, he kept plans to himself and the last 10 days has been a savage horror of chainsaws. I hear pictures are worth a thousand words, and I certainly haven't the words for it so...
Before:
After:
This was "necessary" to bring power lines in from the main road, several kilometers out. Some of us read a lot about deforestation. We know it happens and that it is happening at an alarming rate. Some of us understand habitat fragmentation, such that even with a small habitat lost, if it bisects a system that system can be irrevocably altered (i.e. connectivity is lost, species cannot migrate, edge effects cause the forest to dwindle, etc.).
How different it is, however, when we watch it happen to something we have grown to know and care about. It occurs to me how little we notice things like this in the west. The houses we live in, the roads we drive on, the power line charging the computers you are currently sitting in front of, were all once some pristine piece of natural ecosystem. I doubt many of us would want to give up these things that have allowed us to have such advanced, safe, and productive lives. And I should not fault others for wanting a taste of it for themselves.
But when you watch 100 year old trees fall, when you hear the alarm calls of monkeys and birds who find their territories suddenly halved, it makes you think. I am thinking. I have no right answer.
Sunday, July 6, 2008
How to do Primate Research
So, it occurs to me that many (most?) of you want to try your hand at researching primate vocalization. I don't blame you. I strongly encourage it, but thought I might offer some useful tips before you set out. Please follow these directions carefully and remember that I am a trained professional and that novices should approach this work with appropriate caution.
1. FIND A MONKEY
While this step may seem obvious, it is a very important one and it is worth taking some time to perfect. Monkeys tend to live in trees, and spend a frustratingly large portion of their time VERY HIGH in said trees. So you will have to look up. Walk through the forest, eyes trained at the canopy some 50 meters overhead, and look for minuscule rustling in the branches. IMPORTANT: At least every so often, try to remember when the last time you looked at the ground was. This may keep you from stepping in a hole or on a snake.
When you see such a rustling, train your binoculars (you brought binoculars, didn't you?) and determine the cause of the rustling. In most cases it is a bird. Sometimes it is a squirrel. But SOMETIMES, it is a monkey. If so, you should make sure.
2. HOW TO KNOW YOU'VE FOUND A MONKEY
Not a Monkey:
Monkey:
3. IS IT A BLUE MONKEY?
I am only researching blue monkeys (Cercopithecus mitis) and therefore have no patience for the other primates that often cause rustling. You should know your monkey!
Not a Blue Monkey:
Blue Monkey:
4. IDENTIFY YOUR INDIVIDUAL
I will not belabor the discussion mis-matched nipples and other tell-tale (tail?) signs of individuality from earlier posts. However, you must know who you are dealing with (even as they bounce around at 50 meters over your head). Once you've ID'd your monkey, the research begins.
5. RECORD YOUR MONKEY
This is trickier than it might sound. I have a fancy field recording gizmo, complete with lots of buttons and dials (that way you can tell that I am really working and not just following monkeys for fun). Get one of your own. If you cannot afford a fancy field recording gizmo, listen very carefully and try to repeat the calls you hear so that you can repeat them back to your friends and colleagues. Especially the really loud ones. They will be very impressed with you and your new found line of work. They will call you a genius and wonder how they ever doubted the importance of studying the evolutionary implications of primate vocalizations.
There is certainly much more to researching primates, but this should be enough to get you started. I realize that there may be noticeable lack of non-human primates where you live, and this might be frustrating. Don't give up! You just have to believe in the monkeys. They believe in you.
1. FIND A MONKEY
While this step may seem obvious, it is a very important one and it is worth taking some time to perfect. Monkeys tend to live in trees, and spend a frustratingly large portion of their time VERY HIGH in said trees. So you will have to look up. Walk through the forest, eyes trained at the canopy some 50 meters overhead, and look for minuscule rustling in the branches. IMPORTANT: At least every so often, try to remember when the last time you looked at the ground was. This may keep you from stepping in a hole or on a snake.
When you see such a rustling, train your binoculars (you brought binoculars, didn't you?) and determine the cause of the rustling. In most cases it is a bird. Sometimes it is a squirrel. But SOMETIMES, it is a monkey. If so, you should make sure.
2. HOW TO KNOW YOU'VE FOUND A MONKEY
Not a Monkey:
Monkey:
3. IS IT A BLUE MONKEY?
I am only researching blue monkeys (Cercopithecus mitis) and therefore have no patience for the other primates that often cause rustling. You should know your monkey!
Not a Blue Monkey:
Blue Monkey:
4. IDENTIFY YOUR INDIVIDUAL
I will not belabor the discussion mis-matched nipples and other tell-tale (tail?) signs of individuality from earlier posts. However, you must know who you are dealing with (even as they bounce around at 50 meters over your head). Once you've ID'd your monkey, the research begins.
5. RECORD YOUR MONKEY
This is trickier than it might sound. I have a fancy field recording gizmo, complete with lots of buttons and dials (that way you can tell that I am really working and not just following monkeys for fun). Get one of your own. If you cannot afford a fancy field recording gizmo, listen very carefully and try to repeat the calls you hear so that you can repeat them back to your friends and colleagues. Especially the really loud ones. They will be very impressed with you and your new found line of work. They will call you a genius and wonder how they ever doubted the importance of studying the evolutionary implications of primate vocalizations.
There is certainly much more to researching primates, but this should be enough to get you started. I realize that there may be noticeable lack of non-human primates where you live, and this might be frustrating. Don't give up! You just have to believe in the monkeys. They believe in you.
Thursday, June 26, 2008
Well, howdy.
The internet spot here in Kakamega seems to have misplaced its USB ports. I am not entirely sure how this possible, but it means that this posting will be free of photos - you'll just have to use your imaginations.
Actually, you may have to imagine quite a bit, as there is actually very little news to report. No stunning breakthroughs in vocal communication research, no coups or civil unrest, just many days of patiently following monkeys around and occasionally explaining to perplexed villagers what I am doing and why I keep pointing this microphone up trees. I will admit it is difficult to convey to someone who spends much of their day gathering enough wood and water to get through to the next how western super-powers manage to maintain such status when they send people off on such peculiar errands.
I am beginning to suspect that blue monkeys (or at least the particular group I am studying) are especially bad parents. In the past week, two mothers have managed to misplace their infants. I had the odd experience of watching DJ lose hers. She put the infant down and then luxuriated in a 30 minute grooming bout with Ratchet (another female). The infant, thoroughly bored of this adult nonsense, wandered off. When DJ was finished, she yawned, stretched, and looked around to find no infant. She then spent the next 45 minutes running around frantically contact chirping (a loud, very specific call that I am pleased to have numerous recordings of now thanks to DJ and her wretched mothering skills) but to no avail. No infant and no pictures on milk cartoons. About 4 days later Derby, who was already a pretty dreadful mother (lots of biting and very little patience) appeared one morning with a pronounced limp and a conspicuously absent infant. Her limp has subsided but the infant has not been heard from. Apparently it is hard being a monkey. Especially a very small one.
There are, however, exceptions, which is good for the continued survival of the species. Daffy and Desdemona (I don't name these monkeys) are very attentive, nursing and carrying as expected and rarely forgetting their kids at the grocery store.
The internet spot here in Kakamega seems to have misplaced its USB ports. I am not entirely sure how this possible, but it means that this posting will be free of photos - you'll just have to use your imaginations.
Actually, you may have to imagine quite a bit, as there is actually very little news to report. No stunning breakthroughs in vocal communication research, no coups or civil unrest, just many days of patiently following monkeys around and occasionally explaining to perplexed villagers what I am doing and why I keep pointing this microphone up trees. I will admit it is difficult to convey to someone who spends much of their day gathering enough wood and water to get through to the next how western super-powers manage to maintain such status when they send people off on such peculiar errands.
I am beginning to suspect that blue monkeys (or at least the particular group I am studying) are especially bad parents. In the past week, two mothers have managed to misplace their infants. I had the odd experience of watching DJ lose hers. She put the infant down and then luxuriated in a 30 minute grooming bout with Ratchet (another female). The infant, thoroughly bored of this adult nonsense, wandered off. When DJ was finished, she yawned, stretched, and looked around to find no infant. She then spent the next 45 minutes running around frantically contact chirping (a loud, very specific call that I am pleased to have numerous recordings of now thanks to DJ and her wretched mothering skills) but to no avail. No infant and no pictures on milk cartoons. About 4 days later Derby, who was already a pretty dreadful mother (lots of biting and very little patience) appeared one morning with a pronounced limp and a conspicuously absent infant. Her limp has subsided but the infant has not been heard from. Apparently it is hard being a monkey. Especially a very small one.
There are, however, exceptions, which is good for the continued survival of the species. Daffy and Desdemona (I don't name these monkeys) are very attentive, nursing and carrying as expected and rarely forgetting their kids at the grocery store.
Monday, June 16, 2008
Meet the monkeys
I am sure most of you have been waiting on pins and needles for the next exciting installment of my life in the jungle. Unfortunately, my life in the jungle looks very similar this week as it did last, so I have few exciting tales to tell. In lieu of sordid tales of my life (which consists mostly of eating very starchy food and trying not to fall in holes), I will offer you a glimpse of my homies:
The blue monkey (Cercopithecus mitis) is a rather nondescript guenon who would only be considered blue by those with a rather vibrant imagination. They are, in fact, kind of gray and with not a lot of variation that might make individuals easier to identify as they go sailing 30 meters over one's head. The Kenyan staff seem to have no problem identifying these random gray blobs as they go careening past. They say "That one is Desdemona." I nod, knowingly, staring up at the nondescript gray blob sitting on a tree branch over head. I peer through my binoculars, hoping to find something that makes Desdemona look in anyway different from the other 40 odd critters ambling around. I quietly ask " How do we know it is Desdemona." This is answered with "She has a round nose." "Oh," I say, unconvinced. In fact, they don't have much of a nose at all, round or otherwise. "What else," I press. "Her right nipple is much larger than her left." At first I feel a bit awkward and inappropriate staring this intently at someone's nipples, especially as we have not been formally introduced. But sure enough, they're right. And now, weeks later, I can even tell she has a round nose (sort of).
The group I am watching is called GNorth (I don't know why). They are led by a strapping hunk of manliness called PH (apparently for the band Portishead, unpronouncable to the Kenyans and named by a former researcher some years ago). PH has a pretty easy life - he eats, sleeps, occasionally mates. Even less frequently he beats up on Mickey, an adolescent male who should have left the group some time ago but fails to get the hint (male blue monkeys usually leave the group at around 5 years old, leaving only females, juveniles, and the big boss male). Other than Mickey, PH has little trouble in his life (and I doubt that he would even consider Mickey more than a minor annoyance). There are occasional run-ins with another group to the north (the infamous F-Troop), but the females do most of the fighting. The male of that group, Kentucky, tends to sit on high and observe, with a rather detached expression and an unpleasant habit of scratching his genitals, while the females scream and yell and chase each other out of respective territories.
Right - maybe I can put some pictures up now.
The blue monkey (Cercopithecus mitis) is a rather nondescript guenon who would only be considered blue by those with a rather vibrant imagination. They are, in fact, kind of gray and with not a lot of variation that might make individuals easier to identify as they go sailing 30 meters over one's head. The Kenyan staff seem to have no problem identifying these random gray blobs as they go careening past. They say "That one is Desdemona." I nod, knowingly, staring up at the nondescript gray blob sitting on a tree branch over head. I peer through my binoculars, hoping to find something that makes Desdemona look in anyway different from the other 40 odd critters ambling around. I quietly ask " How do we know it is Desdemona." This is answered with "She has a round nose." "Oh," I say, unconvinced. In fact, they don't have much of a nose at all, round or otherwise. "What else," I press. "Her right nipple is much larger than her left." At first I feel a bit awkward and inappropriate staring this intently at someone's nipples, especially as we have not been formally introduced. But sure enough, they're right. And now, weeks later, I can even tell she has a round nose (sort of).
The group I am watching is called GNorth (I don't know why). They are led by a strapping hunk of manliness called PH (apparently for the band Portishead, unpronouncable to the Kenyans and named by a former researcher some years ago). PH has a pretty easy life - he eats, sleeps, occasionally mates. Even less frequently he beats up on Mickey, an adolescent male who should have left the group some time ago but fails to get the hint (male blue monkeys usually leave the group at around 5 years old, leaving only females, juveniles, and the big boss male). Other than Mickey, PH has little trouble in his life (and I doubt that he would even consider Mickey more than a minor annoyance). There are occasional run-ins with another group to the north (the infamous F-Troop), but the females do most of the fighting. The male of that group, Kentucky, tends to sit on high and observe, with a rather detached expression and an unpleasant habit of scratching his genitals, while the females scream and yell and chase each other out of respective territories.
Right - maybe I can put some pictures up now.
Analyzing bioacoustics
Just so you don't think I'm just hangin out staring at primates, I am including a picture of a spectogram. This is a visual representation of a sound recording that allows us really cool science folks to analyze various characteristics (frequency, harmonics, duration, can you dance to it, etc.) of a call. So, I record the monkeys calls, write down as much contextual information as I can (for example: "PH smacks Mickey upside his little head. Mickey makes whiney trill sound. PH snickers to himself and makes sure all the chicks are watching."), and then go back and turn the recording into a spectogram. Then the real fun begins. Maybe, if you are really awful to me, I'll make you read my dissertation someday. I'll probably spare you, though.
Friday, June 6, 2008
Kakamega
Alright. So here it is. I am in Kenya. That's in Africa, on the east side, with the equator running right through the middle of it. That makes it hot. As in "It's hot as Africa in here" or "It's hot like equatorial Africa in here." Wherever you are when people are saying that, they are just exaggerating.
So, why am I here? Not a bad question. Something about monkeys. I will not bore you with the science of it all on this first post (I will, however, in future posts, as there is only so much "ahh, the beauty and grandeur of the African rain forest" you can stand).
I am not sure how this blog thing works, and the internet connection I am currently tethered to seems fragile at best. However, I will attempt to post some pictures and tell fanciful tales of my life here. Here (do you have your map out? Have you found Kenya? Good.), by the way, is Kakamega Forest. It is in western Kenya, only a few hundred kilometers from Lake Victoria. It is a remnant of the enormous central African rain forest that once spread across the continent.
This is technically my first field season of my PhD (for any of you not keeping up). I am researching the vocal communication of blue monkeys, meaning I spend a lot of time staring up into trees and pointing a microphone and some increasingly suspicious primates. They have an uncanny nack of shutting up entirely when I press record and then bursting into a torrent of song and dance as soon as I turn my back. Cheeky monkeys, as they say.
The forest is lovely, my accommodations are basic yet comfortable, and I take my malaria propholaxis religiously. Life is simple - I get up in the dark, stumble around a bit bumping into things, strap on the absurd panoply of gear I take with me into the forest each day, and stomp off. I then track monkeys, find monkeys, and record monkeys until sunset. Then I collapse and wonder why I didn't go into some sane profession like professional figure skater instead.
But the forest is lovely, the monkeys are patient, and things move along.
I will try to post some pictures now. If this collapses all service in western Kenya, you will at least know I tried.
However, all seems to be going reasonably well.
So, why am I here? Not a bad question. Something about monkeys. I will not bore you with the science of it all on this first post (I will, however, in future posts, as there is only so much "ahh, the beauty and grandeur of the African rain forest" you can stand).
I am not sure how this blog thing works, and the internet connection I am currently tethered to seems fragile at best. However, I will attempt to post some pictures and tell fanciful tales of my life here. Here (do you have your map out? Have you found Kenya? Good.), by the way, is Kakamega Forest. It is in western Kenya, only a few hundred kilometers from Lake Victoria. It is a remnant of the enormous central African rain forest that once spread across the continent.
This is technically my first field season of my PhD (for any of you not keeping up). I am researching the vocal communication of blue monkeys, meaning I spend a lot of time staring up into trees and pointing a microphone and some increasingly suspicious primates. They have an uncanny nack of shutting up entirely when I press record and then bursting into a torrent of song and dance as soon as I turn my back. Cheeky monkeys, as they say.
The forest is lovely, my accommodations are basic yet comfortable, and I take my malaria propholaxis religiously. Life is simple - I get up in the dark, stumble around a bit bumping into things, strap on the absurd panoply of gear I take with me into the forest each day, and stomp off. I then track monkeys, find monkeys, and record monkeys until sunset. Then I collapse and wonder why I didn't go into some sane profession like professional figure skater instead.
But the forest is lovely, the monkeys are patient, and things move along.
I will try to post some pictures now. If this collapses all service in western Kenya, you will at least know I tried.
However, all seems to be going reasonably well.
Thursday, June 5, 2008
Wednesday, June 4, 2008
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